Foreign
by in finitas
Summary: dmhg - "My parents had said Hogwarts is an excellent school to be attending, but when she said it, my mother’s eyes became sad. I already hate it here for making my mother sad." based loosely on the Korean movie the Classic.
1. First Year: Part I

_Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own minds.  
-**Franklin D. Roosevelt**_

* * *

**First Year**

_When I was a child, I remember looking in the sky and seeing the most beautiful display of colors in my whole life. I still have yet to see another one quite like it. It was a rainbow stretching forever behind a large castle not unlike the one I am currently being transported to. It was picturesque, but I still wonder if it is my mother's tears that the bright sun reflected off of. That was the first time I saw my mother cry and her eyes have been dry since then. There were strange men there, also, wearing long black robes and carrying a box embroidered with fine gold. Sometimes I still wonder who they are, but I don't usually dwell on them. They had made my mother cry with their strange words and for that, I don't like them._

_I do not know if I'm ready for school yet, also. My parents had said Hogwarts is an excellent school to be attending, but when she said it, my mother's eyes became sad. I already hate it here for making my mother sad._

* * *

A woman with a sharp nose and a sharper hat greeted the new first years in the entrance hall, looking down at them one by one. She smiled slightly, relaxing the nervous children if only a little. Had it been the late Professor McGonagall, the first years would be shuddering in their cloaks from the hard look on her face. The new Headmistress, however, had learned to be slightly welcoming in case one or two would faint from stress.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she proclaimed loudly. The hall quieted in a hush. "I'm Professor Clearwater. The start-of-term banquet will start shortly, but before you take your seats, you will be sorted into your houses. Your houses – which consequently are Ravenclaw, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor – will be like your families. You will have classes with them, sleep in the same dormitory, and spend your free time in the common room with them." She paused and appraised them once more.

"During the year, points will be given out for good deeds or taken away for rule-breaking to your house and at the end of the year, the house with the most points will be awarded the House Cup. The Sorting Ceremony will begin momentarily." She swept away, leaving the first years gaping at her retreating shadow. Five nervous minutes passed before Professor Clearwater returned and with a wave of her hand, swung open the doors of the Great Hall.

* * *

_I had hoped to be in Gryffindor, since both my father told me of the strange adventures he had in Hogwarts as a Gryffindor. His intricate stories and exploding hand motions always made my mother smile, but she never joined in with his impromptu plays. Most of the time, he would take me outside to ride on our brooms after, always claiming he missed the days of Quidditch and childhood._

_Then I would ask him why he is sending me to a school so far from our home and he would take me in his arms and tell me,_

_"There are things you need to know there, love. Things you need to discover on your own without us guiding you."_

* * *

As she read the names of the new students, Professor Clearwater paused after "Ponds, Janice!" The entire Great Hall went silent with her, the cheering from Hufflepuff dying down.

"Potter, Lillian!" She cried. Almost immediately, whispers circled the Hall as a small mousy girl slowly made her way up to the Sorting Hat. She had shockingly dark hair and emerald green eyes, not unlike those of her father. The same thing touched almost every lip in the Great Hall:

"So he's finally out."

Lillian bit her lip as the Hat was placed securely on her head. Soft laughter filled her ears as the Sorting Hat began to talk.

"Well what do we have here? Harry Potter's mythical daughter has come to Hogwarts. Yes, yes, you have a good mind, as clear as your mother's, but a strong courage that has yet to break free. Where to place you, is the question. Well, I suppose it ought to be GRYFFINDOR!" He shouted the last name, followed by a loud roar from the far table. She smiled meekly and hurried over, trying to ignore the strange looks sent her way.

* * *

_Before I left, my father had pulled me aside and told me to keep an eye out for a boy with white blonde hair and gray eyes. I have. And now my eyes go nowhere else._

* * *

"So the famous Harry Potter finally decided to come out of hiding with his bastard daughter?" A cruel voice sneered at Lillian as she passed through the doors of the Great Hall. She stiffened. Her father had told her that it would come. The hatred would come, as well as the whispers and rumors. They had started in Diagon Alley, and haven't ceased.

"I wonder, Potter, why now?" She turned her head over to a boy her age with flaming red hair and pale skin. She bit her lip again, a bad habit she picked up from her mother, and kept silent. He sneered at her again, ignoring the crowd that was surrounding them. He opened his mouth to speak again when a hand grabbed his shoulder.

"Mr. Weasley, perhaps you missed your house in your... enthusiasm... of seeing Miss Potter. Most of them have already left to become acquainted with their dormitory. I expect you to do the same. Hurry along with Mr. Malfoy now." Lillian looked up to see the Headmaster push the boy none to slightly towards another boy with pale white blonde hair. Him. The Headmaster turned his blank eyes to the rest of the school and they all began walking again.

Lillian made to walk around the Headmaster, but he turned his attention to her.

"A word?" She gulped and nodded, following the Headmaster against the crowd and into the Great Hall again. He turned to her, his black robes billowing around him. "I suppose your father told you of the... circumstances that surround his life?"

"Yes Headmaster," Lillian replied meekly.

"Then I will warn you that there are still those who do not like him and wish to see him destroyed. Be aware, Miss Potter, and do not become as reckless and irresponsible as your father was when he was your age." She nodded timidly. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Miss Potter." He nodded in dismissal.

"Thank you, Professor Snape," she whispered, before hurrying to the door.

"One more thing, Miss Potter." She turned around again. He seemed to pause and rethink his words, his eyes uncertain. "One of the Prefects will be outside waiting to take you to your common room." He finally said before turning around and walking the other way.

* * *

_My father had laughed when he found out Professor Snape had become Headmaster. He told me of his school days when he was convinced all the way until his sixth year that Professor Severus Snape had hated every bone in his body. They were on amicable terms now, though no one besides my mother has seen and spoke to my father for the past 12 years. She told me my father took her hand and they fell off a cliff into the murky waters of the Atlantic and ended up in the small country of Belize._

_They left Belize when I was 5 because of the rising drug trade and unstable economy. We moved to France and changed our names to blend in with the culture there. My father had a problem with learning French, but my mother patiently taught him and I grew up speaking both English and French. I had also picked up Spanish and Creole in Belize, but my stay in France made them a little rusty._

_Now I am in England and I'm beginning to understand why my father left._

* * *


	2. First Year: Part II

**First Year**

_My father told me he wouldn't blame me if I came home with low scores on my end of the year exams. My mother told me she would murder me. I just shrugged and told them I will try my best. My best on what? Whatever my best is. Then I kissed them each on the cheek twice and boarded the train that has not changed since their time and probably the time before them. _

_I still dread returning to school where I am forced to lay in bed at night and listen to Isabella chatter on into the night. I still dread sitting in the Great Hall, alone, with people that look at me, but stay away. They're afraid I'm going to break – the same way my father did so many years ago. How are they supposed to remember the events that are marked for the generation before them? These things I wonder, but I suppose it's one of those things that take time to learn._

* * *

For two hours, only a cough or two broke the silence of the cold classroom. Professor Greengrass occasionally looked up at her students working diligently on the last and final test of their first year. Her eyes rested on the daughter of a man everyone in the wizarding world knew. Lillian Potter was perhaps the best student in any of her classes solely on the fact that she rarely associated herself with the others.

Professor Greengrass frowned. She had yet to decide if it was due to arrogance for being Harry Potter's daughter or shyness. Many times, the staff had found themselves discussing her oddly rhythmic patterns. Every Monday and Thursday she would slowly make her way down the winding path to Hagrid, the old yet still effective gamekeeper, and stay for an hour doing who knows what. Hagrid remained strangely closed lip about her weekly visits. Every Tuesday, she would go to the owlery and send a letter to her parents using the snowy owl her father had purchased her the week before school. On Wednesdays and Fridays, she would be found in the Quidditch pitch, simply looking at the goal posts or studying for a class. Saturdays and Sundays were reserved for wandering around the Hogwart's grounds, sometimes accompanied by Hagrid, sometimes alone, sometimes with her owl perched on her shoulder.

Throughout the year, many have noticed her strange behavior, but most chose not to comment on it. Professor Greengrass found it surprising that Lillian had not been quite as successful in finding a companion as her parents were. Of course, Kenneth Weasley was out of the picture. His father was a staunch supporter of Voldemort and died in Azkaban not two days after Harry Potter disappeared.

A flash of red on her desk caught Professor Greengrass's attention. There was five minutes left of the exam. She stood and cleared her throat, startling many students.

"You have five minutes to wrap up whatever you are writing on the exam," she announced. She watched as the students hurriedly scribbled on their parchment. The bell resounded through the halls signaling the end.

* * *

_It's a Saturday and I have every inch of the grounds memorized, including the Whomping Willow and the edge of the Forbidden Forest. I know some people wonder why I do what I do, but I really have little else to do. Kenneth Weasley is there at every turn, mocking me, sneering. My father said Percy, Kenneth's father, was a decent wizard until the death of Barty Crouch, his former boss._

_The Weasleys had predicted his turn to the dark side, but none of them predicted a massacre on their home led by their own blood. My father never forgave him and my mother told me he was almost obsessive about finding Percy Weasley and sending him to Azkaban. She had told me through an owl, so I don't know if the memories made her cry._

_When I tell her about the boy two years ahead of me with white blonde hair and storms in his eyes, I know she cries. The letters sent back have smudges on them, which makes me wonder who this boy is. The more I wonder, the more I watch him, and the more I watch him, the more I wish to go to him and run my hands over his face which is so familiar. I know it is not acceptable, though. He does not know who I am and I'm foolish to think he would tolerate a child acting so intimately towards him._

_I am still a child, no matter what I wish. I can only wish to grow into this body of mine – to think the age I am supposed to. _

* * *

The train departed from Hogsmeade as the students wave their hands outside to the town and the castle looming in the background. Some teachers stood with the Headmaster on the platform, waving back. The Headmaster, however, remained still, unlike the Headmaster of his time. He watched as the train slowly left and marked the end of another year.

Lillian sat quietly in a compartment with Isabella and two other Gryffindor girls, Christina and May. They chattered amicably, sometimes asking Lillian for her opinion on the latest fashion shown in Witch Weekly or some other mindless topic. She would smile and reply, giving her honest opinion. The girls, having lived with her for almost a year, knew she was shy and tried adding her into the conversation as much as possible.

* * *

_My mother remains silent throughout our two week stay in England while my father attempts to tie lose ends without attracting too much press. She only speaks when spoken to. I don't think she likes England very much, and I get angry with her for it. My father tries everything he can to make her feel better, but I can tell he's giving up. I grind my teeth and stare at my mother at times, wondering how she could treat my father in such a way._

_But then I remember the tears I saw in her eyes the last time we came to England – just the two of us, alone. My father had told her he wasn't ready to return, but I wonder now if that was really his reason. There is something here – I can sense it. There are memories buried in the ground that are far too deep for me to penetrate. I am still too young, inexperienced, to understand._

* * *

Lillian bounded into her father's arms, completely unaware of the long stares trained on the pair. Children just barely old enough to talk tugged on their parent's arms and asked them if it was really true - If that man with the emerald eyes really was Harry Potter and if that girl was his daughter. The parents nodded, some in awe at the simple paternal act. Those were the ones who had not met Harry Potter in person, but knew the tales of his courage and strength.

Harry took his daughter's hand and hefted her trunk onto its wheels.

"Your mother is waiting on the car. She didn't want to come into King's Cross," Harry told her. She bit her lip and nodded.

"Lillian!" Isabella called after her, circled by her large family. "I'll owl you over the summer, okay?" Lillian smiled and nodded. Isabella couldn't care less about her father – the only one. Their first year was over, but Lillian wondered how she would survive the next six.

Harry squeezed his daughter's hand and together they left the train station, eyes trailing behind them. He wasn't scared anymore. No, the numerous reports Professor Snape had sent to him gave him strength to ignore the whispering crowd because his daughter could. Together, they could do anything.

* * *

_Sometimes I would retire to my room and take out the clipping of the boy with white blonde hair and storms in his eyes – a rip out from the school newspaper proclaiming his victory in Quidditch. I keep it hidden from my mother, knowing her eyes would tear had she seen it. And I do not want that. I also keep it hidden from everyone else because he is untouchable, even for the older kids._

_He is also beautiful – waving at the crowd with a large smile on his face. I don't doubt that other girls have the very same picture posted on their walls, but I like to think I am the only one._

* * *

A hand clamped onto Lillian's shoulder before she ducked into her father's car. She heard her mother's intake in breath and instinctively knew it was him. She cautiously looked up, almost afraid to see him.

"Lillian, right?" he asked. His voice was velvety soft and liquid. She barely nodded. "I think you dropped this on your way out." He held out his hand, an old unmoving figure of former Bulgarian Seeker Viktor Krum rested on his palm. Even her father stopped moving, but for a different reason. The seemingly insignificant figure was one of his most treasured possessions, given to him by his late best friend Ron Weasley.

"Thanks," she whispered. She felt like a child, with her thumping heart and trembling hands.

"He was an awesome player." The boy shifted on his feet. He turned and looked around for his mother before sending a smile towards Lillian. "I hope to see you on the field next year. I've seen you fly." She bit her lip harder.

"Thanks," she whispered again.

"Well, see you." He made to leave. "Nice to meet you Mr. Potter, Mrs. Potter." He bowed a little and left, leaving the family in his wake. Lillian turned to her mother to see silent tears rolling down her cheeks.

"What a nice boy," Harry commented, handing his wife a handkerchief. "Much more well-mannered than his father." Lillian heard a choking sound come from her mother.

"Yes," said Mrs. Potter. "Much better."

* * *

The first few updates of this story are probably going to be more common, but as the story progresses, they'll be less. I get bored easily, but hopefully I won't with this one. The Draco/Hermione stuff is coming along, though probably not for a few more chapters. Right now it's the background of Lillian and "the boy".


	3. Third Year: Part I

_Children are the only form of immortality that we can be sure of._  
_**- Peter Ustinov**_

**Third Year**

_My trunks are packed and nicely stored with my new broom rested carefully on top. My father had bought me one when he found out I made the Quidditch team as seeker last year. I am wearing my best robes – newly bought also, since I have grown since Second Year. The sun is setting and I am staring at the beautiful display of colors painted across the sky in the window of our room. My parents are visiting another important wizarding family they knew in a time before me. They do that often when we come to England. I lean my head against the glass, the presence of night making it cool._

_I'm surprised at my excitement to return to Hogwarts, though I still don't know if I like it or not. My mother remained silent whenever I brought up the subject of the boy with white blonde hair and storms in his eyes, though I don't think he will look very boyish anymore. My father had pulled me aside and asked me not to bring him up anymore during Christmas break last year. Why? He told me I'd understand later – not when I'm old enough – but when the time is right. He hates telling me I'm too young for anything._

_I suppose that is the reason why I do not act my age. I did not bring up Hogwarts or the boy with white blonde hair and storms in his eyes again. Not because it makes my mother sad, but because she made me angry and I didn't feel like speaking directly to her anymore._

* * *

The wizarding world has changed little since the days of Harry Potter and his two best friends, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley. The only differences were the absence of Ron and the presence of the next generation of wizards. Of course, Harry Potter looked around himself, into the crowded streets of Diagon Alley, and shook his head. The wizarding world is nothing the same. The buildings stood empty and cold, reminiscent of the wave of darkness that enveloped wizarding Europe for two long years.

Harry felt a strong hand slip into his own. He looked down and smiled wearily at his daughter. She almost reached his height, but he doubted she will grow much anymore. Neither he or his wife were exceptionally tall and they couldn't hope for her to grow magically.

"Hey Lillian!" A voice called toward the father and daughter, masculine. Almost immediately Harry Potter's smile fell. He turned around to see a tall man with a dreamy look on his face.

"Hello Ambrose," she smiled back at the older boy. Harry calmed, having heard about Ambrose Wood and his spectacular Quidditch skills all summer. Ambrose made his way over to them, seemingly to float. Harry smirked to himself. This 'Ambrose' fellow was almost an exact replica of his mother, Luna Lovegood.

"Hello Mr. Potter," Ambrose breathed before turning to Lillian. "I'm booking a Quidditch meeting the minute I step into Hogwarts." He said in all seriousness. Harry could hardly contain his laughter. Not only did Ambrose encompass his mother's eccentric disposition, but he also had the same intense obsession with Quidditch as his father, Oliver Wood. Fortunately, he wasn't quite as burly as his father or fragile as his mother. No, the boy was a good combination of both.

"Calm down, Ambrose. We haven't even boarded the train and you're already talking about Quidditch." The three of them laughed loudly, chattering on about Quidditch and Ambrose Wood's new appointment as the Gryffindor team captain. "In fifth year, too! Father was so happy."

Harry's eyes wandered as his daughter spoke to her friend and over the young man's shoulder. His eyes fell on a tall boy with shocking white blonde hair. He knew who that was and he did not like the intense concentration the boy had on his daughter. His silvery grey eyes were drilling holes through Lillian, though Harry could see through his well placed mask of indifference, there was an odd expression of the boy's face. It was almost as if it was taking all of the boy's strength not to do something. Harry knew that look, though he hasn't seen it in years, and he didn't like it. At all.

* * *

_Goodbyes have always been hard for me, though I'm beginning to get used to it. In first year, I had to say goodbye to my mother and father for the first time, but afterwards, I only said goodbye to my father. My mother does not come to England anymore. She claims she has too much work to do for the Ministry in France, but I can tell my father doesn't believe her. He never says anything, though. He just picks up my trunk and hauls it into the charmed car that we flew to Diagon Alley._

_After a while, I stopped caring. My father had bought a convertible just for the experience of flying high in the air with the wind blowing in your face and the freedom the sky brings to you. Both of us feel more comfortable in the air. My mother was furious, of course, when she found out what he had done to the car, but my father never minded. Your mother's just too cautious, he had whispered. I had laughed then, but I'm not laughing now. I hardly laugh anymore when it comes to discussing my mother._

_I like to think I hate her, but I know that's not true. We're just too much alike, if that makes any sense._

* * *

Headmaster Snape watched with a blank expression as the one Marcus Malfoy moved around in front of him expressively. The young Malfoy's hands were flailing around his body and his mouth moved quickly, explaining in great detail the image he had for an out of school project. Professor Snape would have laughed had he been capable of doing so without scaring the children in which he looks after.

"I think a drama club will really bring out some people who normally are very shy," Marcus concluded lamely, seeing the unresponsive expression of the professor's face. He hadn't expect much, but he had expected more than a blank expression with a hint of amusement.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy, how do you expect to bring all those – ah – shy students into the limelight?" Professor Snape finally concluded. Marcus's face fell.

"Well," he started

"On the other hand," Professor Snape continued, as if the prefect had not said a word, "Perhaps having a creative outlet that does not consist of causing others harm might be what some ... anonymous students would need." His words were obviously directly meant for Lucas Jordan, the current reigning troublemaker and genius hex inventor. Marcus visibly brightened. Professor Snape scrawled his signature on the paper the boy had handed him earlier.

"Thank you, Professor Snape." He beamed at the older man, resembling the two children Professor Snape remembered from before, if only for a moment. Without a word, Professor Snape waved him away, his thoughts still on the memories of Draco Malfoy and his son as children.

* * *

**Hogwarts, 1997**

Draco Malfoy sneered at the thought that his idea of a school newspaper had to be passed by Professor Dumbledore before beginning its first stages. He had gone to Professor Snape, asking for permission and the means of print, but the Potion's master had told him to go to the headmaster.

"That's ridiculous," Draco said sharply. "It's not like I'm going to go about writing essays on You-Know-Who or something." The Professor had given his student a cold look at that statement.

"I have not, in the past five years, thought of you to become like Potter and victimize yourself because of you father's rather ... unfortunate ... reputation." Professor Snape replied. "Such school functions have to be submitted to Professor Dumbledore for approval before beginning them, as last year's Dumbledore's Army failed to do."

"As if the old man would turn down Potter and his self-righteous plans," Draco sneered.

"Bitterness does not become a young man such as yourself, Mr. Malfoy. I would advise against speaking against Potter from now on, lest you wish for the rumors of ... unpleasant ... nature to follow you." The Professor chose his words carefully.

"I'm just sick of Potter and his hero complex." Draco huffed childishly, but stood anyway. "Well, I suppose I should arrange a meeting with Dumbledore."

"Professor Dumbledore," Professor Snape corrected quietly. The boy simply turned and walked out of the Potion's office, his head high and proud. Some things have not changed yet.

* * *

yes, okay, so "the boy" has finally been dubbed a name, which has some sort of strange meaning which I have yet to tie into the story, but it shall. Originally, I posted this chapter, but only the beginning was the same. the rest of it was radically changed, so...yeah..okay

Please review?


	4. Third Year: Part II

**

* * *

Third Year**

* * *

_I was enamored with the sky. It really was as simple as that. My mother had taught me at a young tender age that every night at 9, the stars are bright and shining. In Belize, we had to venture through humid swamps and suffer countless number of mosquito attacks for my mother and I to reach the very special place where the sky was most clear. In France, we had to venture to our backyard. It's hard to find a place in Europe where the industry's gases don't block a clear view of the sky._

_I suppose Hogwarts could be counted as a miracle. Somehow, the wizards found a way to keep the beloved sky clear so the studious children of Astronomy can gaze and wonder. The blackness is so vast and welcoming, whispering promises of freedom. But freedom is not free. I understand that, but sometimes I wish I didn't._

* * *

**Hogwarts, 1997**

Hermione Granger stared at the sky, breathless. In a strangely cold May night, only days before the Leaving Feast, she had only wished for solidarity away from the loudness of the common room. It seemed cliché, but the Astronomy Tower had been her refuge away from the exuberant Gryffindors. Appose to popular first year belief, the Astronomy Tower was simply too obvious for various snogging couples to venture to, leaving the tower empty and void of anyone, especially in cold nights.

She sighed, loving the beauty of the twinkling stars and the pictures they made. She had a mind for calculations, making Astronomy, as well as Arithmacy, her best subjects. Perhaps Potions, too, but Professor Snape was simply too cold and callous for her to really find it as interesting at Astronomy.

"Granger." A cold voice shattered the silence of the tower, making her jump. She spun around and found the infamous Draco Malfoy leaning casually against the doorframe. His hands were loosely hanging in his pockets and his silver spectacles looked like they were pushed roughly up his head to rest on his white blonde hair. He was the epitome of tense and cold beauty. A Lucifer.

Hermione hated Lucifers.

"Malfoy," she greeted evenly. She equaled his pose, sitting on the very edge of the windowsill with her legs and arms crossed. They stared at each other for a long time, his unreadable gaze penetrating deep into her eyes. She hated when he did that, which was often. Had Ron been here, they wouldn't even had time to look at each other before the redhead slammed accusations on the boy – no, man. However, Ron was not here, and for that, Hermione was secretly glad.

"What are you doing up here?" she asked, finally breaking the gaze. She could never hold up against him.

"I could ask you the same," he replied easily.

"I always come up here, ever since fourth year," she shot back haughtily. He smirked. "Now answer my question."

"You Gryffindors sure know how to mark your territory." He walked closer to the center of the room, looking around. "Though, I wouldn't expect less from an over zealous animal such as the lion." He looked at her through the curtain of hair that escaped the hold of his glasses. She bristled.

"You Slytherins sure know how to make a room a hundred degrees colder." She knew it was weak, but in the case of Draco Malfoy, her responses were either ignore or physical action. However, she was also usually around Ron or Harry when in Malfoy's presence and their protective snarls usually allowed her from telling Malfoy off.

"It's a gift," he replied offhandedly. He had stopped paying attention and was studying the large wall marked Summer. It had the constellations usually seen in May, June, July, and August drawn perfectly against a black background.

"What are you doing here?" she tried again.

"You know, I was named after a constellation." Once again, he ignored her. He lifted a thin finger gracefully and lightly traced the pattern.

"I know, Draco the dragon." For some reason, Hermione's eyes seemed to only want to follow his finger, moving back and forth over the yellow lines.

"That's the first time I heard you say my name, Granger." He finally turned back to her. "Don't make it a habit." He walked back to the door as silently as he entered.

"I'll try not to," she called after him, attempting to sound sarcastic. He lifted his hand in a sardonic wave and disappeared into the darkness. Hermione slumped forward. The conversation, no matter how short, had taken all the energy left in her after a long day of classes.

"_Lumos._" She pushed herself off the wall and retraced his steps out of the cold tower.

* * *

_Is it possible to fall in love in third year? I am barely fourteen and I truly believe that I have fallen in love with a boy – no, man, that is far out of my league. Isabella believes she also loves him. I wonder if she does, but she doesn't make her affection subtle. Sometimes, I wish I was like her – outgoing, charming, beautiful. But no, I'm plain and boring. I am nobody, simply my father's daughter._

_My father, who was too messed up to return to his home country for almost twelve years._

* * *

"Lillian!" Isabella snuck up to her friend and pounced. She was not one for subtlety, not was she one to beat around the bush before coming out and asking for favors. "I heard you wrote Christina a love letter for her boyfriend." Lillian froze in the middle of lifting her pencil after her initial scare. She knew the fact that she went up to the Astronomy Tower every day after classes to draw or study was no secret, but no one has actually purposefully looked for her there.

"Uhh," she managed to force out of her mouth before Isabella began talking again.

"So, I was wondering. She said the letter you wrote was so romantic and amazing, though she had to add a little more personal stuff, and I read a copy and it was really beautiful and I was wondering if you could pretty pretty please write a letter for me to a guy I'm absolutely in love with?" Lillian blinked rapidly, trying to digest what Isabella just said.

"It depends," she began slowly, returning to her sketch of Hagrid for his birthday. "Who is it for?" Isabella grinned, knowing this was a weird form of consent coming from her friend.

"It's for Marcus Malfoy, you know, the Slytherin Quidditch captain?" Lillian froze again. "Thanks so much. I love you and I owe you big time." And in the same matter she arrived, Isabella fluttered out of the Tower, completely ignoring her friend's excellent impression of someone under the _petrificus totalus_.

Lillian set aside her drawing pad and quickly packed up her things. She was in no mood for drawing anymore.

* * *

**Hogwarts, 1997**

"I heard you were good at letters," Harry Potter said nonchalantly, setting his books down on a table. Draco Malfoy looked up, his eyes revealing none of his surprise. They were just empty and completely devoid of emotions, which scared most people, but not Harry. Harry was quite familiar with the feeling of complete loneliness and lack of will to live.

"Good to know my reputation precedes me," Draco replied dryly. He had no intentions of buddying with Harry Potter even after he had publicly stated his affiliation with the light side in sixth year and moved in with his cousin, Nymphadora Tonks.

"I want you to write me a letter," Harry said.

"So I gathered," the blond deadpanned.

"For someone really special." Harry ignored the sarcastic comment and continued.

"Special enough for you to enlist this Malfoy's help?" Draco arched an eyebrow, leaning back against his chair. His interest was finally sparked. He pushed his glasses into his hair and studied the other boy closely.

"Special enough for me to not want to royally screw everything up with my horrid literary skills," Harry shot back. He knew this wasn't going to be easy, but he didn't expect Draco to be so reasonable about everything. Realistically, he should be writing the letters by himself, but he just couldn't bring himself to pick up a quill and vocalize his feelings.

"Interesting. Who is it for?" Draco leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Harry's.

"Hermione Granger." Draco smirked and leaned back again. His practiced nonchalant pose expertly masked the tension he felt in his body at the mention of the girl.

"Can't write to your best friend yourself?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. Harry sighed and placed both of his hands palm down on the wooden table.

"Look, can you just tell me if you're game or not?" he bit out. Draco paused, pretending he was thinking about the proposal, though he already had an answer.

"I suppose," he drawled slowly. The two men stared at each other for a long time before Harry picked up his books and stood.

"Thanks," he said before turning and walking out of the library. Draco stared after him, wondering what he just got himself into.


	5. Fourth Year: Part I

**Fourth Year**

_His eyes are on me. They never leave. I can feel them, even though I'm too scared to look back. They're tense. Emotionless. Beautiful. Yet I can't help wonder why he is looking at me. Why are his eyes following me? Why, when Isabella has so enthusiastically owled him every one of my fake love letters to him once a week? I try to breathe, but his gaze seems to take all movement away._

_Ambrose is talking, waving his hands around wildly, but I can't seem to pay attention. I can't focus. Ambrose doesn't mind – he is the same. He puts his arm around my shoulders, leading me to the back of the train. I finally look at him and his grey eyes have narrowed. He's staring at Ambrose now, but he's not emotionless anymore. He's angry. He looks like he's tearing Ambrose apart mentally. And then they're on me again. Locked. I choke, but I don't notice. I can't blink. How can grey be such a beautiful shade?

* * *

_

"Lillian?" Ambrose worriedly passed his hand in front of her face. She blinked and looked up to him. Her expression was unreadable, a stark change from her usually expressive eyes. Ambrose frowned.

"Yes?" She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. The compartment door that Lillian was previously looking through snapped shut.

"Nothing. You just zoned out for a minute, that's all," he replied airily. The frown didn't leave his face, though. He knew Marcus Malfoy was in the compartment, with his friend Francis Zabini next to him. Ambrose didn't want to believe it, but he consciously knew that Lillian has not overlooked the other 6th year's handsome aristocratic looks and lean body. He had seen many girls from all the years look at Malfoy and swoon, but none have had their stares returned. And Malfoy was definitely returning Lillian's look. Malfoy was notoriously known for treating his girlfriends coldly and Ambrose did not want her to go through the same pain that he saw almost every new month.

They entered a compartment, the two Gryffindor chasers already in an enthusiastic discussion about the new Irish keeper, Janis Thomas. She had yet to let a goal past her and Ambrose plastered a dreamy grin on, trying to loosen up. He had plenty of time to worry about Lillian later.

* * *

_My mother told me once that people believed Isaac Newton was the last magician. It seemed odd to me at the time – calling him a magician. I suppose wizard was too broad, since he was only concerned by alchemy. People stopped believing in magic after that._

_She talks about Isaac Newton in her diary. It began July 24, 1997. It ended December 30, 1999. My father had given me the worn, leather bound book the day before I entered Hogwarts for my fourth year. He had told me I would understand everything and I won't hate my mother anymore after I read it. I haven't touched it since he gave it to me, but it is now the fifth day of school and it every minute makes the frail pages more appealing than Hogwarts: A History. My mother had pressed that into my hands before my father and I left. It was brand new and boring._

_I stare at the diary, almost willing it to open and spill its secrets to me. A gust of wind blew into the room and the pages fluttered open. I blink and stand. I suppose if there was a god, that was their sign.

* * *

_

**Hogwarts, 1997**

Draco Malfoy leaned casually against the North window of the owlery, a folded piece of parchment hung loosely between his fingers. Despite his casual stance and disregard of the cold December winds, he looked spectacularly out of place amongst the feathered birds of night. Glassy eyes peered at him from all corners of the tall tower, curious as to why he was just standing there.

The calming silence was suddenly and rudely interrupted by the loud creak of the door opening.

"You're late, Potter," Draco drawled. He hardly looked agitated, but there was a certain amount of tenseness in his eyes.

"Apologies, Malfoy. Ginny needed some help with her Defense homework," Harry threw offhandedly, pulling his robes closer. He stared at Draco with wide eyes, wondering how the other boy could stand there with only a sweater and slacks to keep him warm.

"That's abso-fucking wonderful," Malfoy deadpanned. He really could care less about any plight, academic or not, that any Weasley was going through. He tossed the parchment to Harry. "I don't like waiting with a bunch of shitting owls – at all. Don't think I'll do it again."

Harry bit his tongue. Draco sneered and brushed past him, disappearing from sight. A moment later, Harry took a Hogwarts owl – Hedwig was hunting – and tied the parchment to its leg.

"Give it to Hermione in her room, okay? I'd rather not be there when she reads it." He let it go and watched it flutter into the darkness. He was too preoccupied with his thoughts to read what his former enemy had penned in his name.

* * *

**Hogwarts, 1997**

Hermione pet Crookshanks absently and eyed the letter sitting peacefully on her desk. It was unopened, untouched, and unwanted. A frown marred her face as she studied the ninth letter that a certain Harry Potter had sent her in the past two months. It was almost Christmas break and Hermione could hardly wait to leave the awkward situation that these amorous letters produced.

Perhaps it was in the back of her brain – the knowledge that Harry had not written the letters. She did not want to question him, nor did she have to. It was common knowledge that Harry was atrocious with words and could hardly string together a letter longer than a foot. Besides, the neat script handwriting was not something that could come from the all-action, adrenaline-seeking Harry she knew. To perfect such a penmanship required time and patience, something he sorely lacked.

Hermione frowned even more as the portrait to her room swung open. In stepped Ginny Weasley, sister of Ron Weasley, girlfriend to Blaise Zabini the Head Boy and advice giver extraordinaire. Perfect timing, Hermione mused. Ginny was the only other person besides the Head Boy who knew the password to her private Head Girl rooms.

"Don't frown, it causes wrinkles," was the first thing out of Ginny's mouth. "What's the problem?" Crookshanks stood and moved across the room to an armchair, conveniently taking up the space that she was about to sit in. Ginny glared at the cat and moved to the bed.

"It's the ninth one, Ginny," Hermione stated. She picked up the parchment and all but threw it at the other girl. "Doesn't he understand after I didn't reply to the other eight?" Ginny remained neutral, torn between her friendships to the two 7th years.

"Maybe he thinks you didn't get them," she offered lamely, knowing that Harry knew Hermione was receiving his letters but not replying.

"Maybe." Hermione buried herself into her pillows, clutching her old stuffed penguin to herself. She had never wanted Harry's romantic love, but perhaps it was not something that she had control over. It didn't help that a certain Draco Malfoy was haunting her steps for the past two months and the fact that she didn't mind. In all rights, she should've turned to face him after the first week and yelled at him until her voice was sore, but she didn't. She simply pretended to ignore him and went on her merry way.

Ginny stroked her friend's hair soothingly and watched as Hermione fought a losing war against sleep. She had dark bags under her eyes and her figure was entirely too skinny to be healthy. Something was wrong with Hermione and Ginny felt powerless.

* * *

_My breath catches – my pulse quickens. Is this what happens to little girls that fancy themselves in love? I'm tempted to turn to Isabella and question her, but she is too busy staring at him to notice me. She has a smile on her lips that scares me and I keep still in my chair. The lights darken dramatically and the Great Hall is enshrouded with black. Several younger students scream and I clutch the edge of my chair._

_I have never liked the darkness. A light reflects off his white blond hair and his face is the only thing visible. Looking at me. I begin to tremble, my knuckles glow white in the ethereal light coming from the charmed ceiling. I can't look away. He speaks and I can't pay attention to his words. I fold over in my seat but no one notices. No one is looking. All eyes are on him. And his eyes are on me. I feel like I'm dying.

* * *

_

Lillian hurried out of the Great Hall, pushing her way through the throngs of students discussing the production they just saw. She didn't want to hear anymore about it. Something about that play was off to her, but she had no right to criticize it. Perhaps it was the fact that it was a play about Lord Voldemort – the very man that practically sent both of her parents into insanity. Why would Professor Snape allow such a horrid story to be retold so soon?

Lillian burst outside and took deep breaths, trying to block out the scent of sweat and the feeling of so many people pressed against her. Hagrid's hut was visible from where she stood, but there were no lights shining from the small windows. He had gone to see the play as well. Lillian turned and made her way to the Quidditch pitch. She climbed the many stairs to the top of a tower, paying no mind to which one it was: it didn't matter to her.

She rested her head in her hands. Through her tumultuous, she tried to figure out why that play had bothered her so much. Rationally, there was no real answer to her questions. Lillian realized she simply wasn't strong enough to handle such a dark play. Obviously the first years could laugh and giggle at the appropriate parts and gasp at the scary parts and in the end, enjoy the production, but her – a fourth year – could not.

Strangely, water leaked out of her eyes, creating a foreign sensation. She sat up quickly and gasped. She was crying and the attempts to wipe away the traitorous tears were proving futile. She roughly pushed back some of her hair that was sticking to her cheeks from the tears. A sob broke through her lips and she closed her eyes. A deep breath and another sob, she couldn't take it anymore. She folded over and allowed herself to cry – for what? She didn't know.

"I'm sorry," a voice broke through her sobs. She jumped and spun around, falling off the bench in the process. She wiped her eyes and looked up from her position on the dirty floor. Standing above her was perhaps the reason why she was sitting in a Quidditch tower in the middle of November in only her uniform, no jacket, and crying. His grey eyes bore into hers.

"What?" Lillian stuttered, not bothering to get up. She was too scared to move – his presence was too strong, beautiful.

"I'm sorry if the show made you cry," he elaborated. A calloused hand reached down to help her up. She bit her lip and sniffed, the tears still refusing to stay inside. She accepted and allowed him to lead her to sit next to him.

"It wasn't the show," she mumbled, moving as far as possible without him noticing. He did notice, though, but he didn't show it. She couldn't look at him. She couldn't move. Why did he have to see her this way? So weak. Another bout of tears rushed through the gates. She angrily wiped them away as he remained silent for a moment.

"Yes it was. I saw you during the performance." He looked at his clasped hands, feeling slightly silly for chasing this girl out her. She obviously wanted nothing to do with him, but he couldn't stop. He had to see what was troubling her. He told himself he followed her outside because he was concerned about his performance – it was the first one – but he knew that wasn't true.

Truthfully, Marcus Malfoy didn't know why he followed her outside. He didn't know why he sought her out in the halls during the school days. He didn't know why he liked to watch her eat during the meals, his position at the Slytherin table giving him a perfect view of her. He didn't know anymore, but he knew he had to see her before the night ended. He knew this and Malfoys were not people that denied themselves things they needed or wanted. And subconsciously, Marcus knew he wanted her.

"It's nothing," Lillian replied. She looked around and realized that she was sitting in the Slytherin tower, sitting with the Slytherin team Seeker, sitting there crying and at a loss as to what to do.

"It's obviously something," he pressed. He tried to catch her eye but she refused to look at him.

"Why don't you mind your own business?" she breathed. He stiffened, but remained silent. She sniffed loudly and stood. "Please don't pretend you care." She had meant the last sentence to be for her ears only, but the silence of the Quidditch pitch carried the soft words to his.

"Who says I don't?" he demanded, anger flaring at her words. Why was he even bothering with a self-righteous girl like her?

"I..." she faltered and bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." She stood and tried to push past him, but he caught her arm.

"You're beautiful Lillian Potter," he whispered, his eyes widening. He hadn't expected to say that, but it was too late to take back his words. Besides, Malfoys never took back words. Everything they said they meant and he meant those words with his whole heart.

"Please stop," she choked out before wrenching her arm out of his grasp. He watched sadly as she stumbled towards the stairs and disappeared from his sight. With a sigh, Marcus Malfoy leaned back against the bench behind him and stared at the night sky. The stars were bright and mocking.

Sorry it took so long, but I was having a major blockage of creativeness. Well, anyway, here's an emotionally baggaged chapter for all the angst lovers.


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